


Houses of Blood

by Domimagetrix



Series: Razwan Bahir, World Guardian [3]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Adult Language, Blood and Gore, Childhood Trauma References, Combat, Contains Spoilers for Quest "Fight Arena" and Divergence from Canon, Deception, Graphic Violence, Other, PTSD, headcanons, mild flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 13:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13236840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domimagetrix/pseuds/Domimagetrix
Summary: Razwan Bahir's experiences during the quest "Fight Arena." Khazard's fortress proves unsettlingly familiar turf.





	Houses of Blood

_My flesh is searchin' for your worst and best, don't ever deny  
_ _I'm like a stranger, gimme danger, all your wrongs and your rights  
_ _Secrets on Broadway to the freeway, you're a keeper of crimes  
_ _Fear no conviction, grapes of wrath can only sweeten your wine_

Fitz and the Tantrums - “HandClap”

 

 

I shoved the rest of the flatbread into my mouth, chewing noisily and with little care for manners as I made my way through sparse trees. It was almost impossible to eat delicately when faced with gnomish food. It would never quite compare to dwarven cuisine, but I could comfortably stuff my face with their fruit pittas until my midsection hit capacity and just a bit beyond. The gnomes didn't seem to mind me spending gold in their restaurants.

I spent entirely too much gold in their restaurants.

My brother could disagree all he wanted; the trip to the Grand Tree was worth every bite. The task now was to head home, have a nice long bath, and bring Wise Ali the gnomish cigars I'd acquired along with the food...

“Miss! Miss, will you help me?”

The woman addressing me wore clothing completely unsuited for travel, the heavy fabric of her gown showing no wear and no dirt at the hem. The white fur along the bottom and sleeves was thin, decorative, not thick enough to obstruct anything more than a gentle breeze. The hands she wrung in front of her were callus-free and too soft for manual labor.

She stood next to a broken cart, alone, tears streaming from her eyes.

 _How’s that cushioned life treating you, lady? Did the servants run off? Leave you high and dry? Good._ I suppressed a smirk. _Otto would’ve taken one look at you and turned down the job. Think I’ll follow in the old bastard’s footsteps._

My stride faltered a little at the memory of the miserable fuck intruding here and now. His face was an abrasive, unwelcome image, one forced with bitterness back to the recesses of my mind as my feet found a path away from the sobbing woman.

“Please? He’s gone. They’re both gone and I don’t know what to do.”

Stopping, I glanced at the cart. The bed, left wheel, and frame were in good condition; only the right wheel had fallen loose. An axle bracket lay in the grass next to the wheel. The axle itself rested half-submerged in the ground, the cart’s burden sliding in deference to gravity and burying it further.

Noblewoman, probably lined with more gold than a sultan’s bedroom, and a simple repair.

I hated nobles, but was an Ali through and through.

 _Easy Money_.

Turning, I offered her my best swindler’s smile. “Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble, my Lady. I can fix that cart for you, but it’s going to cost-”

She waved a hand in sharp dismissal at the cart. “Not that blasted thing.” She swiped at her tears with the same hand. “They took Justin and Jeremy.”

 _Oh, no you don’t, Your Ladyship. Looks like your servants did the smart thing and hightailed it out of here. Hell with Otto, I’m going to follow in_ their _footsteps-_

“Please. The Severil family will pay handsomely.”

_Now you’re speaking Pollnivnean, Lady Severil. Go on._

I nodded in silence.

She took a shuddering breath and exhaled, composing herself with limited success. “They took my husband and my little boy. Khazard. He… his soldiers…”

Trailing off, new tears crawling down old tracks, she stared at the ground and hugged herself. “He took them to fight in some arena near here. I was going to try to pay them off,” she waved her hand at the cart again, "but the damned _wheel…”_

Arena?

_“...my little boy. He took them to fight in some arena…”_

My smile disappeared. Whatever replaced it alarmed Her Ladyship and she took a step backward, bumping into the rail of the cart. Her voice became cautious. “Look, I just-”

I felt bloodless. Something alien and parasitic awoke, stirring somewhere in my midsection, extending a long proboscis to infect my voice. “The arena. Where is it?”

The caution in her face drained a little in the face of hope. She pointed through a copse of trees nearby. “That way. There are guards. It’s almost a fortress.” She looked back at me. “Do you have help?”

I smiled, and the fear returned to her face. “I don’t need it. Your people will be back with you soon.”

Turning to the treeline, I adjusted the scabbard strap at my back so the swords didn’t clatter together, heading toward wherever Justin and Jeremy were being held.

_Do you have help?_

No, I didn’t have help. By choice. I hadn’t been made a soldier with Godblessed’s training but an assassin, taught methods of cutting through the fray to a single objective or hiding until an opportunity presented itself to deliver their death. To cut or sneak my way back out and survive. To lift sword against an opponent in places where mercy was neither offered nor accepted. To expect nothing of others except failure, or for them to make additional bodyguarding duties and to complicate an otherwise simple job.

_“You do what must be done or you die. You hesitate and you die. You rely on others and you most assuredly die.”_

I scarcely heard Lady Severil’s whispered, “good luck.”

I’d already begun planning.

 

……….

 

 _Ah, there's some aces up your sleeve_ _  
_ _Have you no idea that you're in deep?_

 

Arctic Monkeys - “Do I Wanna Know?”

 

“Fortress” hadn’t been an understatement. High stone walls with watchman’s towers encapsulated the arena. The soldiers manning them looked bored and untried, however, more interested in gnawing fingernails or staring off into the distance than keeping their eyes trained on the surrounding area.

The place was built with defense in mind, but whomever this “Khazard” was, he wasn’t making full use of the amenities. Half of the critical places for a guard or watchman stood empty, and none of the tower guards were paired up to cover wider ground.

Rounding a corner, I spotted a sole guard reclining with her back against the entryway.

_Time to gamble._

I crouched behind a dew-speckled tangle of brush and unshouldered my weapons, leaving them covered beneath the leaves. Standing, I tugged the leather strip free and undid the braid, scrunching my hair with my fingers until it fell freely along my back.

The nearly permanent, low-grade feeling of tension in the way I held myself fell away now. There was no sensation of alertness as I walked toward the entrance and the guard, only an easy new fluidity in my stride.

 _“Terrible authors say, ‘she exuded sex.’ Fanciful nonsense. Even when you’re dancing the Veils of Six you should only_ hint _at the idea, the possibility. People don’t respond to guarantees half so well as they do a challenge with a_ glimpse _of success. Be a challenge, Ali. Be a glimpse of success.”_

Somehow, Ali the Courtesan’s advice was more useful in breaking into a gladiatorial arena than Godblessed’s. The idea amused me and I let that amusement announce itself in a smile.

Closer examination revealed the guard was about as tall as I was. She was a little broader at the shoulder, but close enough for my purposes.

She looked up, eyed me for a moment, and smiled back.

The smile offered a glimpse of success.

_Perfect._

The smile remained, but the guard held up a hand in a stopping gesture. “Hold on, sweetie. Restricted access here.”

I stopped, all vapid innocence in voice and expression. “I didn’t mean to go in. I just… my friend said he’d seen cute guards out here and I wanted to see for myself.”

Her smile faltered a little. “I’m afraid the boys are either up in the tower or inside. It’s just me today.”

I shook my head, letting my eyes fall over her armor. It would appear suggestive enough as I inspected it for clasps or marks that would distinguish it as uniquely hers. “Not here to see the boys.”

No dents, splashes of paint, or honoraries. Just the odd skull insignia on the front matching what I’d seen on the tower guards. Generic and very nearly my size.

Her smile had returned by the time my gaze lifted back to hers. “And you’re not trying to get in here?”

My head shook again. “Nah. Not in that castle behind you.”

She laughed. “It’s a fortress, sweetie, not a castle.” She looked through the doorway behind her and back at me. “So what are you doing out here? Just having a look and going home?”

I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Unless something more interesting comes along.”

It was her turn to do a head-to-toe visual assessment of me. Whatever she saw seemed to meet with her approval. “Something more interesting, huh?”

The hint of possibility led her away from her post with minimal convincing. More than a hint divested her of consciousness and armor. She lay sprawled on the ground, brown hair matting in the blood on the back of her head.

_“...my little boy. He took them to fight in some arena…”_

Cold satisfaction fed the insect inside me. I smiled again.

It felt empty.

 

………..

 

 _I see you found my underground_  
_Help yourself to guns and ammo_  
_Nothing here has ever seen the light of day_ _  
I leave it in my head_

 

Timo Maas Feat. Brian Molko - “First Day”

 

I understood skulking. I knew walking with the _hint of success,_ moving as though someone had introduced a hint of lubricant to my joints. I’d perfected the stiff gait that communicated “busy and not to be interrupted,” purposeful when making quick travel through a crime-riddled neighborhood or appearing unremarkable when sneaking into someplace I didn’t belong.

What I’d never done was behave like a soldier. Lackadaisical guard at the door and posts or no, I’d always entertained an image of armored military with rigid posture. Saluting. Whatever “standing at attention” involved. Marching in neat formations.

That wasn’t what met me when I walked through the gate. Instead, soldiers milled about and stood in small clusters, chatting about ordinary things. Drinking, the weather, complaining about their duties and extended shifts and…

...their families.

Though I’d tried to relax and blend in, I must’ve straightened too much and one of the soldiers eyed me with amused interest. “New ones have to visit the office by the slave cells.” He pointed to my left and toward an unremarkable entryway. “Left and left again. Captain’ll give you your duty schedule in there.” The hand dropped. “And relax, kid. This isn’t the Kinshra.”

Saying nothing, relieved I hadn’t been discovered, I followed his gesture and found myself in an equally unremarkable little office. The desk was manned by a portly, sour-looking guard wearing armor more detailed than my own.

A few awkward, eager words about duty and rosters had him bent back at his work.

He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

Foolish.

Braiding fingers together into a single fist, I took aim and swung at the back of his head. He slumped over his paperwork and I relieved him of the burden of his keys.

The cells were dismal things, hay-lined, straw mattresses in one corner and a bucket for waste in the other. I ran the key into each lock and lifted them away, toeing the doors open and ushering worn, beaten, and malnourished men and women out into the hallway.

The last held a man and a boy, the latter maybe twelve or thirteen years old. The boy’s light brown eyes widened in fear as I wrangled the lock on their door. He cringed into his father’s embrace as the elder glared at me. Neither seemed to have been here long; they were still relatively hearty while the others here - obviously longer in their stay - had lost all trace of softness in limb and face.

Bruising around his jaw slurred and slowed the man’s words, but they were still clear enough. “Not fighting. The boy.”

“You two won’t be fighting anymore.” I lifted the lock away and pushed the door open, waving them forward. “Lady Severil’s just southeast of here with your cart. Let’s go.”

They stood, the man’s hand gripping the boy’s tight enough for Jeremy to wince. “Dad, you’re hurting my hand.” He looked up at me. “Mom’s coming to get us?”

I shook my head, herding them toward the others. “You’re going to her.” I looked at the little crowd of half-starved, wounded, scarred, and exhausted slaves. “All of you are getting out of here.”

One of the older men, bald and hard-looking, pointed out into the field. “Not for long. They’ll have us back in these cells as soon as we step outside. They have weapons.” He sneered. “We’re only allowed those in the arena.”

Another nodded. “Hengrad’s right. They’ll slaughter us and the gate guard will keep us in.”

I held up my hand. “I took care of the door guard.” A quick glance at the soldiers beyond the little wall satisfied me. “Wait here. I’m going to… make things interesting for those fine fellows and ladies. When you see it, _run from here to that gate and get the fuck out._ Don’t come back here for anything, just move like your lives depend on it, because they do.”

Turning, I strode back out into the open courtyard and between little social clusters of guards. None gave me more than a passing glance.

I hopped upon a crate between the groups, took off my helmet and chestplate, dropped them on the grass, cleared my throat, and lifted an extended middle finger to either side of me.

“ATTENTION, PROMINENT-BROWED MEAT BRICKS! I HAVE INFILTRATED YOUR RICKETY LAND BARGE TO MAKE THE FOLLOWING ANNOUNCEMENT: _FUCK KHAZARD, AND FUCK YOU ALL!”_

Most were silent. All of them stared at me.

One or two seemed to gather themselves, muttering. “Who let you in here? And who the hell are you calling ‘meat brick?’”

From behind me, a deep and resonant voice quelled the emerging complaints. I spotted the slaves moving swiftly toward the gate, but the voice tamped down any relief I might’ve felt at the sight.

“Amusing, human. Let’s see what other amusements you can provide.”

I turned, but something unforgiving landed against the back of my head and the world swirled into blackness before I could see the face behind the voice.

There was no pain.

There was nothing at all.

 

……….

 

_I’m here with all of my people  
_ _Locked up with all of my people  
_ _So let me hear you scream if you’re with me_

 

The Presets - “My People”

 

Feeling returned first in the form of straw tickling the inside of my nose. I sneezed, the back of my head responding with a rich headache and streaks of white light behind my eyelids.

I whined softly, brushing clumsily at my face to dislodge the offending straw. Another sneeze would kill me.

“Move slowly if you have to move. Follow the sound of my voice and make your way here. Slowly. _Slowly._ The guards keep putting herbs in the food. Not enough to do much, but they’ll help. Slowly now, _partet taeusa.”_

The smells - straw, waste, filthy living - conflicted with the name and the South Karamjan accent that flavored it. The name and accent spoke of Hawan do Senagwi, but the smells told me I was elsewhere. I should’ve smelled sand. Sweat. The air shouldn’t have been cold or damp but hot and dry.

I pushed at the straw beneath me and rose slowly, eyes opening to slits and making no sense of blurred colors. Patting the straw to check for obstacles, I push-slid myself in the direction of the voice.

It was drawn with age or exhaustion, but there was sinew underneath. “That’s it, Little Death. Slow like the green spider. Lean on the bars.”

Following his instructions took a pathetically long time, but my hand found one of the bars separating our cells and pulled until I could lean against the cool metal. I heard the scuff of boots and filth-hardened cloth scuff over the floor of his cell as he moved nearer to me.

“Lean back. Drink what you can.” The rim of a cup clinked dully against the bars and I followed it until lips met thin metal. The cup tilted and herb-flavored water flooded my mouth.

I drank greedily until it was gone. He withdrew the cup. “The herbs in this part of the world are not… not _strong,_ and eggs of the red spider would make this more useful, but it’s what we have and it will do.”

My Kirjanu was barely conversant, but I remembered enough. _“Mo reconnaissa.”_

He laughed. “You may keep the gratitude. I am dying and the herbs do me no good now. You have more hope with them.” His voice became tinged with wonder. “You gave yourself to this place to free the others.”

My eyes opened a little more. “Did they…?”

“They are gone from here. Your _annonca_ gave them plenty of time.”

The boy was free. I sighed. “You’re the air mage. At Hawan. The only one I didn’t have to kill.”

“You remember.” His voice was warm. “I recall you told the audience there to be fucked, as well." He paused to cough. “I would have killed you.”

I blinked, and the amorphous colors coalesced into a thin, worn face lined in scraggly beard. He hadn’t aged much in gray hair or lines forming over the years, but he was gaunt with slow starvation and whatever was killing him.

More blinking brought his face further into focus. “Would’ve done the same to you. Sheer, stupid luck that we knocked each other unconscious.”

Companionable silence grew until he broke it. “Wenu.”

My hand met his through the bars and shook. “Razwan.”

He adjusted his position and coughed. “I’ve overheard the guards. The bone giant intends the Death Run for you.”

I huffed a laugh. “Sounds just my speed.”

Wenu’s laugh was sardonic. “The Death Run for Little Death. Fitting. How would you say it… _condamnissa?”_

“‘Fated.’” I diverted a little energy to smiling. “I’ll survive this bone giant’s Death Run and throw his head into the trophy cup.”

His guttural _harumph_ trailed off into a fit of coughing. “Do so! There are no trophies here, but there are cups enough. I would like to see it before you leave this place.”

The headache was dissipating and my vision sharpened with each passing minute. “I’ll come back and free you. Then you can walk out there and see it for yourself.”

Wenu shook his head tiredly. “I am to die in this place. The infection was too strong for these herbs when it was new, and it’s too deep for anyone’s medicine now. It runs free with the blood.” His thin arm reached through the bars and he patted my hand. “When you do kill the bone giant, promise me you will unlock and open this door. I will remain, but I will die with freedom in my sight and that will be good enough.”

I made the promise. The memory in my mind’s eye recalled a confident, proud mage barely past his prime, feet planted wide in Hawan do Senagwi’s sands as he conjured my death from the air around him. Seeing him so diminished, so bereft of that old vitality, hurt.

My voice betrayed nothing of it. “I will. And I will remember the man standing tall in the sands of South Karamja, not this captured animal withering in his cage.”

Wenu nodded, not quite smiling but satisfied. “Then my name will still stand for honor somewhere in the world. Thank you.” He closed his eyes. “And, if you die, I will write your name on this cursed wall before I join you.”

“That’s all I ask.”

We lay against the bars and dozed.

 

…………

 

 _If you pumping this one in your truck (let's get dirty)_  
_If you really don't give a WHAT? (let's get dirty)_  
_Everybody get your hands up (let's get dirty)_  
_If you ain't come to party SHUT UP! (let's get dirty)_

 

Redman - “Let’s Get Dirty”

 

My first opponent, an ogre, was as much a challenge on the battlefield as he was an erudite conversationalist. I spent more time wiping my blades clean than fighting.

The ease of that defeat came as no surprise. Karamja’s infamous “Bloodhouse” had something similar in its _“Retraita”_ \- or Retirement run - intended for those champions who knew their reigns had come to a close and had decided to end their careers with gladiator’s dignity. The first opponent was generally something large and impressive-looking, less dangerous than size alone suggested. A way to rile up the crowd.

It worked as intended here, too. Ogres weren’t particularly bright, and their girth meant for a good deal of exposed flesh even if they bothered with armor as this one had. The guards had discovered my weapons and given them to Khazard, who’d handed them to me personally before I’d been prodded into the grass-covered arena. Bleeding him out and dodging slow fists hadn’t been taxing so much as stage-setting.

Next would be a bladed opponent of some kind, if Khazard’s equivalent continued to mirror Hawan’s.

A scorpion. An _oversized_ scorpion, at that.

Its carapace clicked as it skittered forward. I moved to the side and it matched me step for step, and for several seconds we looked for all the world like a pair engaged in ritualistic dance. The scorpion kept coming forward and I leaped over lethal claws snapping the air.

Its tail darted in and I leaped again, stepping on the tail and driving it down until it pierced the oily rainbow shell on its back between two segments. Fending off the claws flailing toward me with my scimitars, I hopped on the tail until the scorpion sank to the ground with its various legs akimbo.

The showy bulk and bladed challengers were no more.

I swiped at hair fallen loose from my tie-less braid and eyed Khazard, who stood among his soldiers like a giant among gnomes. His was a face as skeletal as Hazeel’s had been but less narrow, the flash of his eyes less tempered with discipline.

As much as he was an intimidating sight, a grand skeleton with armor and withered skin stretched taut in a handful of places, there was something in the face reduced to limited expression that seemed… petulant. Childlike.

The quality wasn’t shared by the voice. It was as large and alien as the cords producing it. “You do amuse, human, but not well enough to account for the trouble you’ve caused me. BOUNCER!”

His voice boomed over the arena, and the entryway opposite me spat a dog into the open field.

A large, red dog. Black smoke shrouded it in a thin miasma, as though the animal were gently steaming in heat that wasn’t present in these cooler climes.

_Enfirchien._

Hellhound.

I’d faced one in Southern Karamja’s Bloodhouse, and it had brought me closest to death during my career. Even Godblessed, profiteer and miserable excuse for a survivalist instructor though he was, had paled when I’d been dragged from the arena covered in blood and bites.

It’d been sheer luck that’d landed me below the _enfirchien_ long ago, my knife held point-out in some last-ditch effort to defend myself, and the beast had impaled itself on the blade. An accident born of a fourteen-year-old’s blind fear.

_I’m not retiring today… Bouncer._

The ludicrous name tickled something in my brain and I laughed at the quadrupedal monster in front of me. “C’mere, boy! Who’s a very good ugly fuck, huh? Just like your master.”

Khazard growled something at the same moment the hellhound decided to dash forward. He built up speed and I waited, standing, one scimitar aimed forward.

_Jump, Bouncer._

I held my breath.

_Almost, almost… NOW!_

The _enfirchien_ leaped as I fell to my knees. It sailed above me and I dropped the other sword, gripping the handle of the first and aiming it at an angle above me. Meat and organs parted in its path and I was drenched in blackish blood.

A piercing animal shriek drove into my ears from above and the beast collapsed on top of me, sword handle digging briefly into my stomach before it and the animal canted to the side. I wriggled away and pulled at the sword to free it. A steadying boot on its rib cage gave me the leverage needed and the blade jerked out of the hellhound’s body with a wet suctioning sound.

I grabbed the other sword and flung blood of the first, getting to my feet. “Disgraceful, Khazard. Setting your puppy out to do your job.”

Orange burned brighter in Khazard’s eyes and he started forward. “You dare? I will cut that arrogance from your face right now, you pathetic _human!”_

He drew his own sword and I flicked a scimitar up in welcome. Though tiring, I poured energy into my voice. “Come on, then. I don’t have all day for this.”

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t frightened, despite the monstrous visage approaching.

I wasn’t standing in a grassy field.

There was sand beneath my feet. The sun rained heat upon it and me. The sparse groups of guards were no more; instead, women and men in lavish finery cheered and catcalled from observation stands above.

I was fourteen and my blood burned.

My opponent said something and I didn’t hear it. The sounds around me faded and returned in time with my pulse.

His sword descended on me from above.

Dodge. Slide. A blade slid between two plates of his leg armor and found paydirt.

My opponent staggered, falling to one knee, turning and swiping at me.

Another miss. Slow and stupid.

Just my type.

I wore at him. He was a more powerful and larger version of the ogre, speed sacrificed for brute strength. My blades drew out from gaps in his armor streaked with something gray and viscous. That cold-neutral feeling began to share space with anger.

He was disappointing me.

I told him so as he fell to all fours. “You bore me, Khazard. I expected better.”

As I spoke he stood as though unwounded. Tall. Taller.

 _Much_ taller.

“BEHOLD THE POWER OF THE MAHJARRAT!”

_The fuck is a Mahjarrat?_

He swung and I dodged, his sword driving into the ground. It drove clumps of hard dirt and stones into the air.

I worked at him again. Dodge, slice, dodge.

I dodged again, this time too slow.

It wasn’t the sword but Khazard’s free hand that found me, swatting me and sending me flying several feet before I met the ground with a sharp exhalation.

Stunned. The backhand had felt cataclysmic, arm shrieking as I’d flown and gone numb now. The scimitar held in its hand thumped softly in the grass.

I swore and struggled as he strode slowly up to where I’d fallen. He sounded amused. “Unlike you, I expected no better.”

His sword swung up behind him and down in front, aimed at me.

I rolled. Drove my remaining scimitar into the gap behind his knee, severing tendons and earning a furious roar from Khazard.

He sank again and the ground shuddered beneath him. I went for the thin line of neck exposed between his helmet and the back of his chestplate.

The blade slid between them and met-

-nothing.

He was gone. My sword met air and I jerked with the force of a swing meant to encounter resistance and finding none.

I looked up and what guards remained stared blankly at me, their god gone and their purpose along with him.

The numbness bled immediately to fury. Whatever Khazard had been, these were humans and they’d trapped a child here to fight for his amusement.

I screamed at them and they scattered like roaches.

 

……….

 

 _If you believe the Western Sun_  
_is falling down on everyone_  
_And you feel it burn, don't try to run_ _  
And you feel it burn, your time has come._

 

Prodigy - “Narayan”

 

I snatched the keyring from the captain’s desk and returned to the cell next to mine. I’d sheathed my bloodied swords - a criminal misuse of the weapons and a guarantee I’d have to replace the scabbards - plodding tiredly back to Wenu’s cage. Finagling the keys with one functional hand was a study in clumsiness and swearing before old brass turned in the lock.

Throwing the keys in disgust and kicking the barred door open, I stepped over to his resting form.

I crouched and touched his shoulder, giving it a shake. “Wenu?”

Cold. His neck, too, was cold as I searched for a pulse that no longer existed.

He hadn’t lived to see his freedom.

Futility boiled in a hot cascade up to my eyes and I sneered, forcing it away. There would be no tears here. No dishonor.

Behind him, scraped into the stone with a tool I couldn’t see and Wenu had no doubt hidden, were two words.

“Razwan lives.”

The message made me smile. He hadn’t seen freedom, but he’d lived long enough to hear it out there on the battlefield.

I stood and returned to the guard’s desk, stooping and retrieving the keyring from the floor. I went back to the spot on Wenu’s wall and dragged the narrowest point of the key over the stone.

“Wenu’s memory lives.”

I left.

 

………

 

Lady Severil stood next to Jeremy while her husband worked the wheel back into position on the cart. She looked up at me, and whatever disgust she felt at my blood-streaked appearance was quickly replaced by gratitude.

“You freed them. Justin told me everything and I insist you be rewarded. We all do.”

They’d been through hell, all three of them. She with worry, the boy and the man with Mahjarrat monsters as well as monsters of the human variety. They’d suffered abominably.

I smiled my best swindler’s smile beneath a mask of drying hellound blood.

I was an Ali through and through, after all.


End file.
